Familial Amusements in a Bedside Manner
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Anne is bedridden after Shirley's birth, but despite being sick, she still enjoys the little cares of her family and friends at and out of Ingleside.


**_Soli Deo gloria_**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Anne of Green Gables.**

 **I'm on an Anne reading spree, and that does nothing but feed my soul and my writing mind. I'd be worried if a fanfiction story of Anne hadn't sprouted by the time I'd turned the last page.**

Anne remembered another time (a lifetime ago) when she wasn't to be removed from her bed for some weeks. Peering back into her memories of her warm later youth, she saw a thin young redheaded girl with a bandaged-up ankle raised to above the footboard of her east gable bed. Her days in this manner were entertained in periods of great society as after school her schoolmates, Diana Barry always a constant, came flooding in to keep the young invalid up-to-date on all the goings-on at Avonlea school.

She found herself with sudden swathes of time that begged to be spent in some useful, if not practically important, work. Mrs. Gilbert Blythe was bedridden on account of a particularly painful childbirth that hadn't gone as quick and smooth as many of her others. The result of the almost day-long process had yielded a great big brown baby promptly named Shirley. She loved the little beastie with maternal love but felt the effects of such medical difficulties for some time afterward. Gilbert, playing the dual parts husband and doctor, told her firmly that a six-week sabbatical in bed couldn't be talked out of, even by such a lady as Mistress Blythe who could spin delicious strings of sentences into the most mesmerizing of spider-web tangles.

To tell the active and ambitious mistress of Ingleside that strict bedrest was unnegotiable was a blow to Anne's soul. The world had just given birth to the most beautiful spring, full of light and bright colors that delighted and enhanced the picture of the world with swishes and swabs as cleverly arranged as any world-renown masterpiece. Still, 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'. Anne resigned herself to her fate as cheerfully as her wearied body and soul would let her. What sealed her fate was the remembrance of an old illness of Gilbert's. Occasionally she saw the weariness and paleness in him that spoke of symptoms before the typhoid fever; she knew that pang of worry that rang in her breast that he must feel looking down at her now.

The loving residents of Ingleside thought of nothing of their school and playmates and Susan and Father when Mother was locked up in the eastern wing of their beloved house. Each and every one made the pilgrimage there everyday to see beloved Mother and gaze at their big baby brother. And so Anne's charge of complete bedrest was spent as like this 'most every day:

Susan should've added 'Patient' to Anne's long name of Mrs. Dr. Dear. She was the only personage in that house let to sleep after seven in the morning—excepting the doctor after a long night's work, and Mr. Shirley Dear, who woke so often at such odd hours that any hours of sleep numbered onto his little head were welcomed as a benediction. Anne thus was usually woke by Susan knocking at the door and bustling in with nary a second's wait for a reply. She set about fussing like an old well-meaning mother hen, feathers ruffled and clucking as she brought Anne her breakfast and opened the curtains at the window and bustled about setting the room a-right. She aided Anne in sitting up against the mountain of provided pillows, and this conversation would follow: "Susan, please be a dear and open the window. I want to see and smell the beautiful morning. Can't you see those graceful branches knocking against the window, as if politely asking admittance? They beg to be welcomed, Susan."

"They're just tree branches grown up against the window with hardly a prune having ever been introduced to them. And there's a chill wind spread over the yard this morning, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and Susan Baker won't let a cold come upon her Mrs. Dr. Dear if she is a good nurse, that's what." But as much as Susan's heart was tended toward the nursing side of warmth, so also was it given to any other nice thing, and she would always silently give in to the earnest shining look in those starry eyes of Mrs. Dr. Dear. The window thus opened let in a warm hug of air, the scent of spring and delicious growing things welcomed eagerly by this maiden of the seasons.

Next attention was to be brought about the little master of the house. Susan Baker was head over heels for the little man. She scooped him up in his blankets and held him with as much motherly love and care as any one since Eve's time. Susan's plain face became transformed as she cooed and gasped and complimented the little man, playing with his fingers and admiring him in tones of tenderness and goodness.

Anne then attended to Shirley, as all mothers must do, and Susan took her time heading back to the hustle and bustle of the four loud, rambunctious Blythes now need tending. Susan was enraptured with Shirley, but would never admit how much time in the day she spent walking him about the halls of Ingleside whilst she let a list of chores pile up under her care.

Gilbert would return from the feasted breakfast table holding his doctor's bag, ready to pop off in a moment. He sat next to Anne atop one of Mrs. Rachel's old quilts and told of what homes he'd visit that day. Anne, naturally a social creature, craved the little details and quirky anecdotes he could tell. A kiss on her pretty head and off to work he'd slip, whistling through the house and plucking affectionately one or two of his offspring from his legs.

Next Susan opened the door, looking for the world despite her ordinary housekeeperly appearance, as an army sergeant. The troops marched in in single-file. They stood stock still with straight backs, looking remarkably unlike Anne Blythe's children.

"All right. Now, be real careful with your mother now, children. She's real fragile." Susan would say a variation of this speech as something said absentmindedly that still must be said to the little ears that let speeches through like a sieve. Her attention and heart were caught in the little reaching arms of the little Shirley.

Anne felt a relief in her heart as her children sprang forth from their statue-like states and sprawled all around her. Jem at her right hand, sitting up like a big responsible boy, holding Mummy's hand. Nan and Di snuggled against their mother's shoulders, little trusting eyes peering up at her through dark, thick lashes and light, sunshine eyelashes. And Walter, grave even at the young age of four-years-old, would hold Mummy's left hand, and look at her with patient, limpid eyes, so blue against the paleness of his skin.

And what little important things they would bring to her! All their troubles, their thoughts, confidences, worries, mistakes, hopes, wishes, complaints, confessions, prides, compliments, comments, cares, loves. Each little word was gently listened to by Mother, who stroked their hair and thought how wonderfully blessed she was with her little dears. Even bedridden she could soothe their little worries and pet their heads and kiss away their grievances.

"Mummy, sometimes I feel like punching ol' Darnell Davis when he says you're going to die. I know he's teasing me, but I could punch him!" from Jem.

"Winter is dying, Mama. It's gone away," from old-souled Walter.

"Di took my dolly!"

"No, Nan took mine! And my dolly dress!"

All could be brought to Mother and solved; if not solved, at least shrunk from great, overwhelming significance to such a degree that the child was properly soothed.

Eventually Susan would shoot up as if she'd just sat on a pinecone and say, "Mrs. Dr. Dear, Jem will be late for school! Jem, say goodbye to your mummy and fetch your books!" Walter and Nan and Di, though they were too young to skip apace with their big older brother to the cavernous schoolhouse to learn big and important numbers and letters, were forced out at this point for the sake of Anne's recovery. Jem would kiss Anne solemnly on the cheek, Walter would hug Mother longingly, as if he wasn't sure when he'd hug her again, and Nan and Di would protest violently to the point of hitting Susan after she'd put the baby in his crib and come to tear the prisoners away back to their cell.

Anne's fingers would hold out in a wave as if this was a long-lasting forever farewell. Then her hand would lower, the motion a great draw from her small reserve of strength. She'd sigh and lean back against her throne of feather-down pillows and look outside. She'd concentrate on the little noises that created the richness of her world: the thoughtful, old questions from Jem to Susan at the gate; Nan and Di playing outside her door with their dolls, creating small voices for their babies' busy lives. Walter would be humming in the garden, ready to be led back into Ingleside by a puzzled Susan, who loved the boy fondly but whose own imagination was too poorly developed to equal this uncommon boy's own.

These noises, mixed with the tender coos of a strong young son and the sweet cries of birdies outside chirping for their mothers' comforts, filled Anne's heart.

She spent her days on different but all equally important activities. Sometimes the morning's welcome party would require all of her energy and attention; then she'd lay back amongst the quilts and comforters and sleep with the lullaby of a morning spring lulling her to sleep from the open window. Other days she'd carefully sit up and hold Mr. Shirley Blythe, and adore his darling features.

"Susan, have you ever seen such a nose? I believe he's inherited mine, but better."

"Yes, Mrs. Dr. Dear. A better nose there never was—my apologies."

"Accepted but not required. And oh, such strong legs. It makes me tired to think of what miles he'd run if he could only walk!"

"He'll develop into a cool, strong man. I know it. I know his sturdy little heart already," said Mother Susan, knitting in the rocking chair.

Anne gently twirled a fingertip into his wisp of curl. It held shades of the red and the brown the Blythe children were known for; to Anne's relief, he bore a stronger resemblance to his father in terms of hair color than of his mother. "He's so big and ruddy, so unlike his brothers."

"That's all fine, though. Wouldn't do for these three boys to be photograph copies of each other. He's the exact opposite of Walter, with Jem dividing them in the middle, leaning a bit in either direction of delicateness and ruddiness. Mr. Shirley is all strong and ruddy, ain't he?" The pride in Susan's voice often had Anne kissing her wee babe's head before letting him fall into a thick nap in the ready arms of Mother Susan. Anne would lay her head against her pillow, looking like the epitome of pale, especially against the white pillowcase, and let her eyes close.

Aside from these occasional divulges into naps that belied the consciousness of sickness in her body, her mind and hands kept active. Ladies' Aid organization was brought in and out of that room by the willing Susan Baker, all letters and programs leaving thoroughly written and planned. If not these, then letters. Anne's fingers could always find a pen and paper to write thoughts to an old friend. Friends spanning years and the passage of time were waved hello to once more.

"'It's so nice to be getting old but also it's nice being married, isn't it, Janet?'" to Janet Douglas, neé Sweet.

"'Men can be so nice and good to have around. Wouldn't you agree with me, at least, on rare occasions?'" in jest to Cornelia Elliot, neé Bryant.

"'Susan is cheering under the responsibility of another baby in the house, Rebecca Dew. But please, a visit from you is always the next best thing in the world,'" to Rebecca Dew, neé Dew.

"'Children are such delightful blessings, aren't they, Leslie?'" to Leslie Ford, previously Moore, neé West.

"'I would say that Nan and Di are reincarnations of us in our childhood, Diana. My imagination says it might must be so, though; they have the souls of us in our childhood, but together from birth. That's as special a bond as a vow over an imagined river, isn't it, Diana?" to Diana Wright, neé Barry.

"'You mustn't fear for my health, Marilla. Gilbert's got a good feeling about my road to recovery, and monitors me such as only a husband who is a doctor can. Oh, he's such a mothering dear!'" to dear old Marilla Cuthbert, neé Cuthbert.

And if she wasn't tired by these little cares, Anne would do something she usually hadn't the time to do: she indulged in the work of short stories. From the days of the Story Club to her little magazine writings during her school-teaching years, Anne loved to spin a yarn of a tale. She hadn't begrudged Owen Ford his novel, but treasured the hope of one day writing her Big Novel as he did. Perhaps that day was decades away along the horizon around the bend in the road. At that present moment, though, Anne would catch a fragment of an idea, such as she did the day she fell through that outhouse roof and wrote a little sweet pea dialogue in the rainy weather, and write it in the fine penmanship of a learned B.A.

When Gilbert arrived home at odd hours from work, weary or victorious but always full of tales, he'd sit next to her, his Anne under his arm, and they'd exchange their day's stories. Shouts from the children echoed in the halls and Susan bustled in and out at will, always knocking and apologizing for her intrusion (it wasn't a habit she could break in her old age, so Anne and Gilbert gave up asking her to not worry about it). In these few moments, whether at four in the afternoon or in the late hours of the night when the moon broke through the long tree branches dancing away in the sweet pleasure of the evening, Anne would listen, and Gilbert would listen. His strong yet firm fingers would rub against the pale yet work-worn hand of his wife, who'd earned and needed every minute of rest she could gain from her relentless sentence.

Anne's natural tendency to be active and everywhere resisted at the idea of being bedridden with little strength and heavy paleness and loss of color. However, the little bright bits of warmth and life and love and family reminded her that in order to join them, her vessel must be made well. So she took every doctor's order with the appearance of a model patient, and her patience paid off.

She moved from the bed to the rocking chair by the window. From the rocking chair to the sofa in the parlor. From the parlor to the front porch. From the front porch to the little stone bench under a flower-jeweled arch amongst her flowerbeds.

Visitors attended her; Marilla fought against the stigma of her old age and came to meet little Shirley. Mrs. Rachel traveled up with more quilts to share gossip and fret about Anne's color. And letters—Jem found no task so great as to find how many fat letters he had the honor to deliver to a twinkly-eyed mother after school each day.

Anne's health slowly recovered. From the careful instructions of a husband who would _not_ prove the old saying right, the shared responsibilities of tending to a baby who didn't like to sleep half the night and couldn't bear socks on his cold feet or hats on his small smarm of hair with Susan, to all the little stories and tales told by household blessings and friends from across Canada, she found no life lost in this housebound period. She emerged into the rising spring a little paler, a little fainter on occasion, but as full of life and love as ever. She embraced all these things in her life, forever glad to be alive.

"Isn't it such a spring, Gilbert?" from Anne Blythe, neé Shirley, in whispered conference one night, meeting him after a long day in her rocking chair on the front porch.

He kissed her. "Such a spring, my Anne."

 **Thanks for reading!**


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